There’s a young man waiting at
the airport. I can’t help but watch him, he’s so beautiful. He has pleasant
light brown skin and his hair pulled back away from his face in well-kept
dredlocks. Some of them are yellow, some are clementine orange, some are burnt
red. Not a single root shows. Not many people show that kind of dedication with
their hair. His hands are pressed palm to palm, flat, and trapped between
his knees like Harding in Cuckoo’s Nest. He keeps glancing at the
clock with the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.
The clock strikes the hour and
his back straightens. Whatever he’s waiting for – departure, arrival – must be
on its way. Five minutes pass. He fidgets with his hands and fixes the sleeves
of his well-worn military jacket.
Ten minutes pass and he resists
bouncing his leg. I can tell because one ankle and boot-toe twitch erratically
without ever moving fully.
Fifteen minutes pass. By then
he’s chewing on the backs of his snakebite piercings. It pulls them into his
lip, creating small dimples in his skin.
Twenty minutes pass and he
stands, running his hands down his thighs as though to smooth his jeans. A lady
in uniform appears behind the stewardess' podium and he moves toward her. He
asks in a quiet south-end accent:
“Excuse me, ma’am, is this the
gate for flight 7336?”
“Yes,” she says gently. It seems
as though she’s spoken to him before. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s been delayed again.”
His mouth breaks into a fragile
smile and he looks down for a moment to compose or control himself as she continues,
“The storm off the coast of New
Zealand has not yet let up.” She pauses, lips pressed together as though
holding something in. The sympathy in her eyes builds for a moment and comes
loose, “I’m so sorry, Diggs. I thought someone would have told you. I'm sure
he's fine.”
He looks back up, the fracture of
that smile gone again. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, Anne.”
“See you tomorrow.”
He buries his hands in his
pockets and moves away down the strip, shoulders shrugged high near his ears as
he goes out into the cold of a London night.
I wonder who he’s waiting for.
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